Not Formally 'Coming Out' Didn't Make Me Less Queer

It took me a long time to be able to announce, publicly and openly, that I’m queer. Even today, when coming out about one's sexuality is viewed as far less of a big deal than it was even a decade ago, mine has always felt like a weighted secret I might let slip. When I was growing up, I had an awareness that I wasn’t straight, but it took me years to find language that fit how I felt on the inside.

Which is why there's always been one question in the back of my mind: Do I need to formally “come out” to the people I care about?

I still find myself asking this because, despite all the social progress we've seen during the last few years, there’s this pressure—both from the straight people in my life and LGBTQ folks who’ve been out of the closet far longer than I have—to deliver some kind of formal announcement on the subject. I mean, I get it: For some, that moment is the first step toward feeling safe enough to be themselves. But as a queer-identifying Black woman, that just isn’t the case for me. The mainstream queer community that many of us have access to is full of mostly cis, able-bodied, thin, white people. That sometimes means that, in its effort to create something universal within the LGBTQ experience, the whole concept of coming out can actually further alienate queer-identifying people who might also belong to other marginalized communities.

The reality is, if you’re queer, you have to make the decision to come out to every person you meet. Sometimes the weight of that decision is exhausting, and can be rooted in safety and survival: When a queer person comes out, they could be subjected to homophobic violence. Further, a queer person of color or a Black queer person will often find themselves subjected to more violence than a white one. According to Advocates For Youth, over a third of LGBTQ youth of color said they’d experienced physical violence because of their orientation.

That violence is also largely normalized when it comes to LGBTQ people of color. We saw it with Lil Duval’s transphobic comments on the radio show The Breakfast Club, in which he joked about his indifference to the murder of trans women (Janet Mock wrote a beautiful response to it for Allure).

The threat of violence loomed so large in my mind that, for a long time, I only “came out” to the people closest to me. In some ways it still shapes the way that I interact with new people, though I find that the question of my identity emerges either casually or not at all, depending on who I’m interacting with. There’s almost never a formal declaration: “I’m queer, and this is what that means for my identity.” Instead, it comes out almost anecdotally: “Oh, that reminds me of something that my partner did the other day...”

Is there even a point in formally coming out anymore?

It’s also possibly a generational thing—millennials are rewriting plenty of the scripts we have about identity. But when I asked some of the other queer-identified people I knew about their experiences, a lot of them said that the decision of whether or not to formally “come out” was strongly impacted by how they thought their family or community would respond—a surprisingly traditional response, and a pressure that’s rarely discussed in mainstream queer narratives. Community support is vital for queer people, especially when you consider that LGBT youth are more likely to be homeless than any other demographic: One study found that 42 percent of homeless youth are LGBT, a likelihood that increased to 62 percent if the person is of color. So with all those obstacles set up for queer people, is there even a point in formally coming out anymore? Or is it passé at best and potentially dangerous at worst?

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“Coming out shaped my identity as a queer person because I came to realize that there's no one way to do it, and no way to anticipate someone's response,” said Rachel, a 24 year-old social media editor. “It doesn't have to be forced, and you don't owe anyone ‘your truth’ or whatever B.S. people like to push. Coming out organically was so much easier for me than planning it out. ”

The process of coming out may still be expected of LGBT people, she says, but those expectations no longer represent the actual experiences of many queer people. “It's definitely still seen as a requirement in the mainstream narrative, I'd say, but I think that narrative is driven by cis, gay, white dudes who maybe have different concerns when it comes to being open about their sexuality,” says Rachel. “Within my own queer circles and spaces, I'd definitely say it's more of a ‘do what works for you’ narrative, which is nice and freeing.”

The process of coming out is still expected, but those expectations no longer represent the actual experiences of many LGBTQ people.

Stigma and shame around one’s identity can further make complicate coming out. Angelica, a 26-year-old freelance writer who identifies as bisexual, found that her coming out came in phases. “I'm still in the process of navigating coming out to my very large, very traditionally Latino family, who have a rough time overall accepting someone who's gay—let alone someone like me who likes more than one gender.”

When it comes to the pressure to come out, she’s found that it’s more than just a fear of the personal consequences. “The current political climate can make some people scared of doing so because we're witnessing the start of a real homophobic and queerphobic backlash, among other bigotries. So in that instance, I can see why a need for more visibility, more loud and emphatic assertion of gayness and queerness, can be seen as an empowering thing. But I also see how draining and alienating that can be for people.”

On the other hand, a formal coming out announcement can help some people more fully embrace their identity. That was true for Lara, a 29 year-old writer and editor, who found that coming out with a purpose helped her find comfort in her identity as a bisexual woman. “I [came out] officially—on social media, on National Coming Out Day last year. Bisexuality is often erased, especially in regards to women of color, so it felt important to be vocal about who I am.” She adds, “Coming out is, all at once, incredibly intimate yet public, so the need to have a formal coming out will constantly shift based on how our interactions change in relation to social climates.”

Queer identity is layered and complicated. In truth, there is no one universal queer experience because the myriad other experiences and identities that we each carry all craft a different interpretation of what queerness looks for each of us. Regardless of how a person chooses to come out, if we back off the pressure for people to do so we give queer people the power to create their own narratives—ones that center on their happiness and self-definitions. Because while there may not be one universal queer experience, striving for happiness comes pretty close.